


And never will be

by JaqofSpades



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: 12 days of Ficmas 2014, F/M, language and sexual themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Her name echoes down the block, setting off a wave of catcalls and whistles.  Half these goons have no idea what she's like, he thinks resentfully, her tiny body sharp with promise and her pale blond hair that would shine in the murk of this place, and the purity of her face … he nearly said no.  He should have said no.”   Veronica visits Weevil in prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And never will be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monimala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/gifts).



> This story has been sitting in my hard drive half finished for years.  (In fact, it's sat in SEVERAL hard drives.)  It was inspired by Monimala's ficlet [Shaking Hands with the Devil](http://malisita.com/ats/veronicamars70.html) which I DID ask permission to take further when I started writing this *blushes* maybe two years ago? Three?

He's been seeing her – most of the night and at least twice during the day – since he first realised that this was what you did in jail. You waited, and you hoped, and you dreamed of the outside world. And you tried to keep it inside when you came all over your hand but sometimes, her name came out with the groans anyway, and this was Chino, and there were no secrets.

So when the word came down, they all knew.

That Sunday, the visiting bay was full. Everyone who'd ever called himself PCH and everyone who'd ever been arrested by Keith Mars, and everyone who had a grudge against him and even those who were just plain curious were there, all the skeevy lawyers and dutiful wives and crying mamas in town summoned to visit that day, because they'd heard she was coming in. To visit him.

He'd called her V, mostly, not to keep it a secret, but mostly because that was how he remembered her, tiny and sharp and so fucking sassy … just the memory of the contrary curl of her lip did it for him every time. But sometimes, he'd been thinking of other moments, soft moments of trust and connection and the feel of her arms around him as they wove back along the coastline, old bristling anger fading into that feeling of just them, just together, and her sliding closer to him and settling her chin on his shoulder and he didn't want to forgive her but he did and she goddamn knew it.

That feeling, and it was “ay Veronica!” when it took him, so when Leland calls out the names on the visitors register for the week, her name echoes down the block, setting off a wave of catcalls and whistles. Half these goons have no idea what she's like, he thinks resentfully, her tiny body sharp with promise and her pale blond hair that would shine in the murk of this place, and the purity of her face … he nearly said no. He should have said no.

But he'd admitted it to himself months ago. Pretty much from the first time she'd tipped her head to one side and those eyes were daring him to help her, to see where it would take him, even as his common sense yelled hell no. When it came to Veronica Mars, he was weak.

So, come Sunday, he was sitting in the cattle box, waiting for them to call his name to go out there, and every few minutes a hiss of “ay, Veronica!” would be directed his way, and every fucking one of them was fixated on the plexiglass wall that would let them see her, his Veronica.

He felt sick.

He'd forgotten something, though. He had friends in here. Lots of PCH, and at least a few of them had an inkling of him, and Veronica Mars, and the weird, fucked up dynamic they shared.

The box was full of girls. Tony Rodriguez's girl Lupe was smokin' hot, tall and curvy with long black hair right down to her butt. And she was wearin' a skirt so short he could nearly see her goddamn butt. And was that Carmen? Visitin' her tio, maybe? Half of the barrio was in here today, and the boys eyes were poppin' with long brown legs and low cut tops and red, red lipstick.

V, now, had on her usual combat pants, cut loose for comfort, and a couple of layers of funky t-shirts. Baggy jeans, loose shirt, combat boots, on a tiny, childlike figure … he wondered if anyone else even saw her. He nearly laughed at the nondescript uniform, but it made him sick that she knew, she'd known. Why the fuck would she come anyway?

“Navarro!” The screw's voice was too fucking loud and a few of the boys looked up in surprise – they'd just assumed the gringa hadn't come, cuz really, why would she? - but she was already sitting down and picking up the phone. He wondered if his voice would actually work, or if it'd tremble because it was just so good to see her. Really see her, he thought, with those stormy green eyes that were darker than he remembered, and the little pointed chin and the lips he tried not to stare at too long.

“Weevil?”

And that little, sarcastic lift of her eyebrow that was already calling him out on the long, hard look.

“V.”

“How's it hanging?” And this he knew, this he could do. 

“Low, chica. Hanging low.” And his smirk was there, and Weevil's bravado.

But this was Veronica, and she'd always seen straight through Weevil. Part of him wondered, when he was being really fucking hopeful and stupid and romantic and shit, that she might actually see Eli, sometimes.

He'd pretty much forgotten Eli, because without Veronica Mars, there was just Weevil. Weevil, jailbird. Weevil, bad motherfucker. Eli was just a kid, that kid who'd been crushing on a skinny white girl just because she talked back, and smirked straight at him, and never looked away when he stared at her that bit too long. Never made him feel dirty.

He felt dirty now. He was hard, because the slight roundness under two layers of t-shirt made those lush, curvy mamas look showy and overdone, and the flash of skin that appeared at the top of her baggies as she moved did more for him than the acres of leg the other girls were showing. He could surround her, this girl, swallow her up in his big hands and hold her still as he tasted that spot, there, to the left of her bellybutton, above the curve of her hip.

Thing was? That was the bit the hurt most, wanting her like that. Because he hadn't always been locked up, hadn't always had to stare at her through plexiglass. Was a time, he'd gone to kiss her on the cheek, and she'd turned her face to catch it on her lips. 

He'd let himself drink her in for a long minute before he'd stepped away, unsure. “This isn't a good idea,” he'd mumbled, thinking about how she made him weak. How she was 09 and he was barrio. How she'd ride with him and joke with him, but never trust him enough to let him keep her safe.

And now he wants to murder that motherfucker because of the embarrassed little face she'd made, the way her breath had hitched as she forced out “your call, Vato.”

'Cause he'd seen it in her eyes, what she wanted. More than once. And he'd ached to give it to her, wanted her like he'd never wanted anyone else, but had chickened out. Bwark, bwark. Told himself he just wasn't good enough.

His eyes sting as he looks at her, the irony choking him. She doesn't belong here, can't come again. Because all that time on his bunk, he's figured it out. Veronica Mars had somehow decided Eli, her friend, was worth something. But he'd turned her down, and gone his own way, and that path led here. And now, Weevil Navarro, ex con? He never will be.

_fin_

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.


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